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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27961901">To Keep Them Safe</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassunjey/pseuds/Cassunjey'>Cassunjey</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Related, Character Death, Family, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, POV Thorin, Pre-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:29:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,749</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27961901</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassunjey/pseuds/Cassunjey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the 'Write Your Melody - Daily Prompts November 2020'.</p><p>A series of one-shots focusing on Thorin. Starting from before the fall of Erebor.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dís &amp; Frerin &amp; Thorin Oakenshield, Dís &amp; Thorin Oakenshield, Frerin &amp; Thorin Oakenshield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Fanfare</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Despite Thorin making regular appearances in my other fics I haven't spent much time with him. So in an attempt to do a bit of a character study and get into his head this series of one shots will all be from his POV. </p><p>They will follow a linear structure, starting from pre Smaug in Erebor, into Dunland, on to Moria and ending in the Blue Mountains. </p><p>Grateful to hear any feedback.</p><p> </p><p>Khuzdul<br/>-------<br/>Adad - Father<br/>Amad - Mother<br/>Sigin'adad - Grandfather<br/>Sigin'amad - Grandmother</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Frerin was fidgeting. Again.</p><p>“What-" Thorin hissed out of the side of his mouth, careful not to move his head. The King would be watching them closely, and it was most definitely King Thror today, not Sigin'adad. “-in Durin's name is wrong with you now?”</p><p>“It itches.” Frerin lifted his head, wide green eyes staring plaintively up at Thorin. “They're really itchy.”</p><p>It was an effort of will not to smile.</p><p>Frerin had complained about the new trousers from the very moment Thorin had helped him into them. The tunic had been itchy too he'd whined, as Thorin had pushed him down onto a stool. The litany of woes continuing as Thorin gently untangled his little brother's sleep mussed hair. The circlet was so heavy, the braids too tight. Could Thorin please do them again?</p><p>His boots were pinching, Frerin had grumbled as he'd stomped at Thorin’s side through the passageways from the royal chambers to the great hall. He had a headache. And a tummy ache. Dis had cried all night and he had had a bad dream.</p><p>Frerin wasn't taking being a big brother well.</p><p>“Eyes front, little brother. Not long now, I promise.”</p><p>As if he had cued it the horns sounded out a fanfare and the chatter of the crowd faded away to excited whispers. Thorin stood a little straighter behind the throne, giving Frerin's golden curls a little tug as a gentle reminder to lift his head. All eyes turning away from them and toward the doors, searching for a first glimpse of their new little princess.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Prompt - fanfare - an introduction with a short and lively sounding of trumpets; or, a lot of chatter showing that people are excited about something. Use the word in either context. (200 words)</p><p>Wordcount - 262</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Dissonance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“No.” Molir glared at him. They moved closer to the wall of the passageway to let another group of dwarves run past. “No, Thorin.”</p><p>The crash of stone from somewhere above their heads, out on the mountainside, drove them all into each others arms. Thorin realised he'd clutched at Molir and released him quickly.</p><p>Dust tickled his nose and he was suddenly certain he could smell smoke. Thorin glanced at the roof of the passageway and reminded himself sternly of the strength of the stone around them as he unwound Dis’s arms from about his waist and pushed her toward Molir. Dis fought him, twisting in his grip and clinging to his arms and his tunic, her face determined. Pressing his lips to her forehead Thorin carefully pried her delicate fingers free and shoved her back firmly into Molir's arms, stepping out of her reach before he could change his mind. She howled wordlessly back at him in a mix of fear and fury.</p><p>“Take her. Get her out.” Thorin turned to Frerin, standing white faced and trembling behind him. “You too, little brother.”</p><p>Frerin shook his head and tilted his chin, the stubborn look in his eyes and the set of his jaw suddenly reminding him of Amad. Thorin's heart twisted. He didn't have time for this. Every moment spent arguing was a moment wasted. </p><p>Molir took a step closer, Dis held tightly to his side and his usually smiling face grim. "Thorin. No. I will go and I will fetch them all, I promise you.”</p><p>There was a distinct roar from somewhere nearby, down towards the gate. Distant screams echoing along the passageway. Thorin felt his blood turn to ice, his own panic reflected back to him in Molir's wide eyes. The temptation to grab Frerin and Dis and run was almost overwhelming.</p><p>He planted his feet against the stone and took a shaky breath. Amad would not leave the mountain without them. She would search in vain until it was too late. He had to find her.</p><p>“I am your prince and you will do as I command.” Thorin forced himself to sound stern, glanced at Frerin and back at Molir. “You will all do exactly as I command.”</p><p>A flicker of a snarl twisted Molir's face. They glared at each other.</p><p>Molir dropped his eyes first.</p><p>“As my prince commands.” Molir swept Dis up onto his hip, ignoring her protests and the tiny fists beating at him. Fast as a striking snake he reached out and caught a hold of Frerin's skinny wrist with a growl. “Come on.”</p><p>Frerin squeaked and clawed uselessly at the thick fingers as Molir dragged him away, reaching back toward Thorin. </p><p>"No, brother! Thorin!"</p><p>Knowing that he needed to move but unable to turn away Thorin let himself be forced back against the stone by the press of dwarves, some of them carrying packs and bits and pieces of furniture. Their treasures. He stood on tiptoe and watched Molir carve a path toward the lower gate, trailing Frerin in his wake.</p><p>Another loud crash from above their heads, closer now, and screams broke out nearby. Someone jostled him and something solid hit hard against the back of his head. Distracted he took his eyes from Molir for a moment and by the time he looked back they were gone. Swallowed up by the crowd and the darkness. Lost to him.</p><p>Whispering a plea to Durin to keep them safe Thorin turned into the tide and pushed his way toward the royal chambers.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Prompt - dissonance - lack of harmony among two or more musical notes. Otherwise, it's clash of opinion or personalities. Write a scene where at least two characters are in a disagreement about something. (300 words)</p><p>Wordcount - 384</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Forte</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thorin crouched below the ridgeline and looked out toward Erebor. Smoke wreathed the mountain but all seemed to have at last fallen quiet. His heart clenched painfully.</p><p>“What are your thoughts, my prince?” Gimoir tore his eyes away from their homeland.</p><p>“I think we're not far enough away, but they can go no further today.”</p><p>The grizzled captain nodded beside him. “Hopefully the beast will be satisfied with...” Gimoir’s voice cracked and he coughed. “I mean-"</p><p>Thorin placed a hand on Gimoir’s arm. He knew what he meant, it didn't need to be voiced. The same horrible thought was foremost in his mind too. The guilt and sorrow that they only continued to draw breath because so many others did not.</p><p>He hoped it had been quick and painless, but his heart told him no. Shaking away the dark, sorrowful thoughts as they threatened to overwhelm him Thorin kept low and began to move away from the ridge, beckoning Gimoir to follow. There would be grief, but that would come later, when he had more time.</p><p>“Molir carried Frerin and Dis to safety,” he said as they picked their way down the steep mountainside toward the makeshift camp. “I will never be able to thank him enough.”</p><p>He had tried, reaching a hand out to Molir. But the guard, once his friend, had turned away, Dis still huddled tight into his neck and refusing to let go. Both of them rejecting his clumsy attempt at comfort. It had hurt. Molir's soot stained face had been lined with his own personal grief, Dis's eyes rimmed with red. Thorin resolved to try again later.</p><p>“Do you know if his-“</p><p>Gimoir swung his head slowly, his braid beads clinking. “I have not seen her. But perhaps there are more that will find their way out to us. Do not give up hope just yet.”</p><p>Thorin nodded and murmured something which could have been agreement. They both knew it to be a false comfort but they could pretend for a little longer. It was another debt which could never be repaid.</p><p>A rough tent had been erected for the royal family in the shelter between two low trees. Gimoir looked at the closed canvas flaps and back to him. “What orders, my prince?”</p><p>Thorin took a deep breath, feeling the remnants of smoke catch in his chest. His adad and sigin'adad were inside. Both stricken by grief. For family or homeland, Thorin didn't know which and didn't like to ask. It made no difference in the end. He would lead until such times as he was relieved. That was his duty.</p><p>He straightened his shoulders and turned to face his people.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Prompt - forte - In music, it is a dynamic meaning to play the note "loud or strong". Similarly, one's forte is an area or talent that is their strength. Showcase your character's forte today. (400 words)</p><p>Wordcount - 443</p><p> </p><p>(If you're interested I have another fic 'Smoke and Salt' which ties to this. It's about what Molir and Dis are up to whilst Thorin is trying to sort out the camp on the first night after the dragon.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Music to my ears</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He missed stone, Thorin decided as he closed up the forge and turned to head for home. Erebor stone. The stone of his mountains. Clean and solid underfoot. Not this mud and Durin alone knew what else that made up what passed for ground in this mannish town. The slippery filth that sucked and tugged at his boots with every step.</p><p>He missed clean burning torches and piping hot baths. It was beyond uncivilized. Heating buckets of water over a fire, like an orc in its cave. The water cooling before the tub was even half full. Thorin hadn't felt properly clean in months, no matter how hard he scrubbed at his skin and hair.</p><p>The persistent drizzle of the last few days had turned heavier, the sky grey. Thorin considered the cart sitting outside the poor excuse for an alehouse briefly, before rattling the coins in his pocket and deciding to walk.</p><p>A bit of rain won't hurt you, he told himself sternly as he tugged the hood of his thin cloak further over his head and trudged on through the town, the cart rattling and splashing past before he reached the outskirts. And neither will walking home.</p><p>The rain had soaked him to the skin and the sun had sunk well below the horizon by the time he reached their enclave. Thorin nodded to his people as he passed and made his way to their little wooden house in the centre ring. He'd wash first and report to the King after, he decided as he pushed open the door and stepped inside.</p><p>“Thorin!” Dis called happily to him from the table. Her smile faded and she set down her mending. “You're drenched. And late.”</p><p>Thorin shucked off the mud-caked boots and hung up the cloak. “My apologies, for both.” He counted the damp coins in his pocket and dropped half into the housekeeping bowl, pocketing the rest. They would go to the King.</p><p>“We've a bath all ready for you, brother.” Frerin dragged in a basket of damp logs and began to stack them neatly by the fire to dry. “And there's stew in the pot.”</p><p>“That-" Thorin glared at his wet socks and pulled them off with a sigh. He lifted his head and smiled at his brother and sister. “-is music to my ears.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Prompt - We all need a little or maybe a lot of positivity right now. Maybe something that is pleasant or gratifying to hear or discover. "Music to my ears" if you will. In today's prompt, incorporate the phrase. (200 words)</p><p>Wordcount - 388 - a bit over!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Ostinato</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He was moving before the cry had faded. Sword in hand Thorin crashed through the scrub toward the little copse of trees, cursing himself for his complacency as he willed his legs to move faster. The part of his mind that advised a cautious approach overruled.</p><p>Frerin leapt to his feet and spun to face him as he burst into the clearing with a roar. “Thorin! What the-”</p><p>“You-” Thorin slowly lowered his sword, glancing around the trees. He moved to Frerin's side, checking him over quickly. He seemed unhurt. “You cried out.”</p><p>His little brother looked guilty and Thorin felt his heart begin to return to something like normal. He sheathed his sword, his hand shaking a little, and only then noticed the broken pieces of wood by Frerin’s feet.</p><p>The painstakingly crafted animal trap that Frerin had spent hours on and had been so proud of was broken beyond repair, pulled apart carelessly.</p><p>“This was no animal,” Thorin murmured, nudging the pieces with his boot. “I am sorry, my little brother. But it does look like the trap worked, and that is a good thing. If you wish to see it.”</p><p>“I expect the others I laid along the trail will be the same.” Frerin sounded downcast. Thorin squeezed his shoulder.</p><p>“Perhaps, but perhaps not. We will take a look.”</p><p>As they made their way along the narrow trail it looked like Frerin had had the right of it. The second and third traps had been discovered and torn to pieces.</p><p>The last trap had been discarded well off the trail, thrown amidst a thick patch of brambles. Thorin stood with his hands on his hips as he gave some thought to leaving it there. He glanced back at Frerin. His little brother stood scuffing his boots on the trail, the very picture of misery with his shoulders slumped and his usually merry mouth downturned. Thorin sighed heavily. Perhaps this one wouldn’t be too badly broken.</p><p>He pushed himself determinedly forward into the bushes, cursing the thorny shoots as they caught at his clothes and his hair. But at last, with bare forearms scratched and his braids tugged every which way, he managed to untangle both the trap and himself. He examined it closely as he walked back toward the trail.</p><p>It had definitely been men or orcs, Thorin decided. But he couldn’t tell which. The third trap hadn't appeared to have contained an animal so Thorin suspected it had been mannish work. A work of calculated spite rather than mindless brutality.</p><p>Beside him Frerin muttered a filthy curse that he really shouldn’t have known. Thorin cuffed him absentmindedly and turned the trap over in his hands. It was, unfortunately, completely unsalvageable but it would find a final use in lighting a fire. He snapped the last large piece to make it easier to transport and stuffed it into his pack with the others.</p><p>“You overreacted a little,” Frerin said sulkily, rubbing his ear. “Just so you know.”</p><p>“I overreacted?” Thorin stood and wondered for a moment when his little brother had grown so tall. They were nearly eye to eye. “I overreacted? There are orc packs roaming these hills, as you well know. How many more times do I need to tell you that you mustn’t draw attention to yourself out here? Not to mention that you’ll have frightened away any game for miles.”</p><p>Frerin turned away. Thorin couldn't be sure but he thought he saw an eye roll. He definitely heard the snort and the low mutter that they’d never seen so much as a glimpse of an orc.</p><p>“Anything could have came through those trees looking for you.”</p><p>“But anything didn’t.” Frerin kicked a rock into the bushes. “It was just you.”</p><p>He kicked another rock. It bounced hard off a tree and skittered back onto the trail and Frerin laughed, amused by his own prowess. He stole a quick look at Thorin through the tangle of golden hair that desperately needed combed and braided.</p><p>Thorin wasn’t in the mood to celebrate Frerin’s ability to kick a rock at a tree. He folded his arms and Frerin shrugged and continued.</p><p>“As always. You should have seen your face though.”</p><p>Frerin performed some sort of ill judged impression and Thorin suddenly thought he might strangle him. He managed to restrain himself and took Frerin firmly by the shoulders instead. Frerin’s face dropped.</p><p>“You cried out. You cannot do that.” Thorin gave his little brother a quick, hard shake to try and force the words to sink in. “What if someday you cry out because you need me and I don’t come? What happens to you then?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ostinato - A repeated musical phrase or rhythm. A repeated musical phrase or rhythm. Have a character repeat what they said, or include a phrase twice! (200 words)</p><p>Wordcount - 780. Went over slightly!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Flat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thorin clapped as Dis hit the makeshift target. He wasn’t quite in the right position to see properly but from this angle it looked to be dead centre. Or close enough that it didn't really matter. She grinned over at him, her face alight with pride and happiness as Frerin glowered beside her. His little brother was losing, again. Badly.</p><p>She had a true talent for the throwing knives, better than most her age.</p><p>They’d begged him to join them but he’d waved them off, saying he was content to watch. That he wanted to sit and enjoy a quiet smoke in the shade of the trees. They’d shrugged and left him to it.</p><p>In truth he felt tired and listless. Flat. It didn’t make sense. For Thorin knew it was a very pleasant summer’s day. A day that seemed to have been built for sitting under a tree and enjoying a smoke whilst his siblings played and bickered good-naturedly. There was even a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves above his head to keep the biting flies down. And two fat rabbits lying by his right knee that were destined for the dinner pot.</p><p>He knew that he should have been happy. Or if not happy then at least content.</p><p>Dwarves didn’t get ill, so it couldn’t be that. But he didn’t understand how he could feel nothing. It had been days. It had to be some sort of affliction.</p><p>The new enclave was perfectly nice. Thorin filled the bowl of his pipe with the foul, mannish tobacco and tamped it down with his thumb. He wasn't looking forward to it but since he’d made such a fuss of sitting out and smoking he supposed he’d better get on with it.</p><p>He hunted around for his tinderbox.</p><p>The men here were, not friendlier exactly, but less hostile. That should have made him happy. But he found that his steps still quickened every evening as he crossed the final village, making his way to the dwarven settlement on the outskirts. On the side of the village nearest the dark woods where the hungry and bold wargs prowled. The dread low in his belly as the flimsy huts came into view. The relief that all was still as he had left it that morning.</p><p>Perhaps it was the monotony of it all. Grinding him down. A series of repeating events with no discernible progress made. Another mannish village or town. Another pride-swallowing negotiation for a scrap of worthless land, stood by his Adad’s side and forcing his face still. Listening to the Crown Prince of a great dwarven race scrape and bow to those so much lesser than himself. Followed by another round of looking for poorly paid, demeaning work. Scratching a living until it was made clear to them that they had outstayed their welcome. Packing up and moving on.</p><p>Thorin wasn’t sure how much longer he could bear it.</p><p>The poor quality, overpriced tobacco finally caught, the taste bitter on his tongue. A shout of joy from Dis lifted his head and he felt a little rush as he realised.</p><p>Anger. He felt angry. That was a whole lot better than nothing.</p><p>He took another puff and coughed, leaning back against the tree. Not ill after all then.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>flat - lacking interest or emotion. Use the word with one of these definitions (or more, for a challenge). (400 words) </p><p>Wordcount - 548</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Toot one's own horn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dis didn’t so much as let him step inside and take his boots off. Meeting him as he opened the door and telling him in an excited but stern voice to wait as she stamped her feet into her own worn boots and threw her cloak around her shoulders. </p><p>The scent of stew and woodsmoke called to him as she closed the door, shutting them on the wrong side of it. She took his hand in hers and he did his best not to grumble. He was tired and hungry. It had been another long and frustrating day and he had wanted nothing more than to get inside and forget all about it. To get warm and kick his own boots off. It felt as if the cold rain had worked its way through his layers and into his very bones. </p><p>She began to tow him along the side of their little wooden hut and he followed along in her footsteps, his spirits rising a little. It was nice to see her happy and her enthusiasm was infectious.</p><p>She was limping.</p><p>He frowned, annoyed that it hadn’t occurred to him before. “Are your boots getting too tight?”</p><p>“Never mind that.” Dis stopped in front of her latest project and threw out her arms in triumph. “Look!”</p><p>So that was a yes then. Thorin wondered how in Durin’s name he was going to find the coin to purchase new boots. There wasn’t anything left to trade. Perhaps he could-</p><p>“Thorin.” Dis sounded exasperated. “You’re not looking.”</p><p>He apologised.</p><p>“You need to get closer.” Dis took his hand and knelt in the sticky mud. He crouched beside her and reached across to tug the hood further over her hair, tucking in a few loose strands. She rolled her eyes and took a firm hold of his chin, turning his head back toward the dirt. “Look. Can you not see it?”</p><p>He leaned closer and sure enough amidst the muck there was a little sprout of green. The tiniest shoot. Determinedly pushing it’s way out of the vegetable bed Dis had carefully built.</p><p>Thorin huffed out a breath and rocked back on his heels. </p><p>His people weren’t farmers. Smiths, yes. Miners, of course. Masters of their craft. They could build anything, bigger and better than any other race on Middle-earth. The strongest fortresses, the most magnificent bridges. Miracles of beauty and of engineering.</p><p>But they couldn’t breathe life into that which they built.</p><p>Until now.</p><p>He smiled at Dis and wrapped an arm around her, kissing her temple.</p><p>“It’s beautiful.” He reached out, intending to caress the tiny leaf that he could now see lay half-unfurled on the shoot. Dis slapped his finger away with a squawk.</p><p>“Don’t touch it. You’ll kill it. I want it to live, at least until I can show the hobbit in the morn.”</p><p>The hobbit, of course. Thorin smiled. Frerin had told him all about the strange, hairy footed creature that Dis had befriended.</p><p>His brother had assured him that the wandering hobbit seemed harmless enough. Just curious. A kindred spirit, also far from home and hearth. A friendly oddity. Thorin had nodded and been content to let things be. The hobbit would move on soon enough and his sister was more than capable of dealing with one of those soft folk, should it come to it. Frerin had also promised to keep a close eye, although he said that he found all the gardening talk mind-numbing.</p><p>Thorin looked at Dis's face, slicked with rain and beaming with pride in the evening gloom. He kissed her again and touched his forehead to hers. “You are very clever, my little sister. I am very proud of you.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"toot one's own horn" - to brag or to talk boastfully about oneself. Who's doing it today and why? Do they mean to? (300 words)</p><p>Wordcount - 441</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Tone deaf</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Cowards.” Thror paced the floor of the wooden hut, from corner to corner like a caged beast. “I had never thought that I would live to see the royal line of Durin spineless and beaten. Quaking in their boots and scraping a living amongst lesser folk. Paupers.”</p><p>Thorin glanced at his adad, willing Thrain to speak and stop the tirade. When it appeared that nothing would be forthcoming he took a deep breath and stepped forward.</p><p>“Sigin'adad. Be reasonable, we cannot go back. Smaug will-”</p><p>“I did not ask you to speak, craven. You, who bade me run instead of fight. You, who with your poisonous words forced me to turn my back on our homeland and our kin. To leave them all to burn. You are the most shameful coward of them all.”</p><p>Thror crossed the room and Thorin took a quick step back, suddenly fearful that his sigin'adad intended to strike him down.</p><p>Instead Thror stopped and looked at him with disgust in his eyes. “You do not deserve that fine beard you sport. Where is your pride?”</p><p>Thorin dropped his gaze to his boots, his heart hammering loud enough that he was sure Thror could hear it. Thrain stepped forward at last, his hands outstretched.</p><p>The furs brushed Thorin’s legs as Thror whirled away.</p><p>“I have dealt with dragons before," Thror snarled. “Are we not dwarves? There is nothing that can stand against us, if we only had the heart and the stomach for it.”</p><p>With his cheeks on fire and a painful lump in his throat Thorin ground his teeth and tried his best not to think unkind thoughts. Thoughts like how Frerin and Dis couldn’t eat pride.</p><p>All the warriors were working. Running themselves ragged smithing, guarding caravans, hunting for furs to trade. Swallowing their pride and biting their tongues. Taking anything and everything they could. Ranging far from their families to bring in coin so the weak and those unable to work didn’t starve or freeze. Giving half of everything they earned into the royal coffers, never to be seen again.</p><p>The hut had fallen silent. He’d missed something.</p><p>His adad and sigin'adad stood nose to nose. Determination and fury written across both their faces.</p><p>“Get out,” Thror said in a low growl. “Get out before I kill you.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tone deaf - One of your characters may lack the general perception of their surroundings, of other's opinions.. or of their pitch when they sing. In today's prompt, include this character's tone deafness, or mention the term. (200 words) </p><p>Wordcount - 410</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Allegro</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The hammer sang. Thorin looked on, his heart bursting with pride as Dis shaped the metal with skill and a keen eye. She was a natural.</p><p>Keeping an eye on her he glanced over to his little brother. Frerin lounged in the furthest corner of the smithy, seemingly relaxed but Thorin could see the carving taking shape in his clever hands. Another new and intricate design by the look of it.</p><p>He’d given up on the smithing with Frerin when it became apparent that the lad’s interest and ability lay elsewhere. These were unusual times and to adapt was to survive. They couldn’t all be smiths.</p><p>A pile of oddments and wood scraps lay by Frerin’s feet and a growing collection of forest animals were lined up neatly along the workbench beside him, like his own personal army.</p><p>Thorin turned the latest one through his fingers again, smiling. A wide-eyed little rabbit that looked like it might at any moment wriggle it's nose and leap out of his hands, scampering across the floor to join it's friends.</p><p>A toymaker in a nearby town had already shown an interest and Thorin had negotiated hard for a stall in the weekly market, raising the deposit for a few weeks at least. He had kept it a secret, hugging it to his chest, until both his siblings had a surplus of saleable work built up. Not wanting to put them under pressure. He looked between their benches and nodded to himself. It was time. He would tell them after dinner. He couldn’t wait a moment longer than that to see their faces.</p><p>His two naturally talented youngsters.</p><p>Dis had stopped and was looking at him oddly, her head tilted.</p><p>“You’re humming.”</p><p>“Am I?” He hadn’t realised. He scratched at the prickly stubble on his chin, wondering if the itch would every die down. His head felt light and heavy at the same time. It was a little unnerving. “You need to heat the blade up again, Dis. And retie that braid, it’s coming loose.”</p><p>“I know. I was just about to.” She looked him in the eye and lied to him before she turned away.</p><p>He was happy, Thorin thought, his fingers stroking the little rabbit. Strangely contented. That too was a little unnerving.</p><p>The town was large. The buildings poorly constructed but at least they were made of stone. That was an improvement. The man who owned the smithy had been uncommonly grateful for his kind, recognising that a dwarven smith was worth his weight in gold. He left Thorin in peace, insisting that the smith and his family should take the set of rooms above the forge as their very own, at a reasonable rate that he would take out of Thorin's wages. Only appearing to collect goods and rent with a broad smile. Sometimes handing over baked goods from his wife in return.</p><p>Thorin was no fool. A smithy full of valuable equipment needed guarding, but the rooms above were warm and comfortable and Thorin knew better than to be anything other than appreciative. The best negotiations after all were those where both parties felt they had gained the upper hand.</p><p>They were slowly but surely digging their way out, carving something that in certain lights resembled a life for themselves. They had food upstairs in the larder and there was coin in his pocket for when he wanted to buy more. He had time, the most precious thing of all. Time to spend with Frerin and Dis. Time to begin training again, meeting with Dwalin and Molir in a field outside the town to spar or just run. He was laughing more, sleeping better.</p><p>His belly rumbled and he glanced out the small window.</p><p>“It’s past time for thinking about dinner, you two. I’ll finish that up, Dis. Go on upstairs and get washed up.”</p><p>He thought she growled but he might have misheard. Her smile certainly seemed all sweetness as she took off her leather apron.</p><p>“If I ever have dwarflings,” she said as she swept out of the smithy, “the very first thing I teach them will be how to cook.”</p><p>Frerin lifted his head as the door slammed. “What did you say to her this time?”</p><p>Thorin stared at the ceiling as the sound of his little sister stomping up the stairs and over the floor above drifted down to them. He winced at the sound of another door slamming. “I honestly have no idea, but I think we had best be upstairs and washing carrots by the time she gets out of the bathroom.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>allegro - music is played in an upbeat, cheerful, brisk tone. Someone feels this kind of way. What prompted this feeling? (400 words) </p><p>Wordcount - 713</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Crescendo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The hum of the worried crowd grew louder as Thorin raced along the wooden fence that encircled the settlement. Loud enough for him to hear even over the pelting rain and the sound of his own boots as he splashed and skidded through the deep mud. Balin waited for him at the gate. The expression on his face, clear even within the shadows of his deep hood, enough to slow Thorin’s steps to a walk and chill his heart. He tried to gather himself as he drew closer.</p>
<p>It wasn’t good news. How could it be? Dwalin’s abrupt arrival at the forge doors, and his refusal to speak anything further than a command to run as he shoved Thorin into the street, had made that much clear. Thorin smoothed at his hair uselessly. It was no way for a prince to arrive. Breathless and mud spattered. And still wearing his leather apron. His fingers trembled as he reached for the ties, tugging it over his head and hiding Balin's stricken face from view for a moment.</p>
<p>“Tell me.”</p>
<p>Balin fell into step beside him as they made their way toward their people gathered around the doors of the King’s hall. “It's Nar.” Balin took a deep breath. “He's alone.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>crescendo - a dynamic in which the music gradually increases in loudness and intensity; i.e., the sound, the action, or the emotion escalates. Write a piece in which a crescendo occurs. (100 words)</p>
<p>Wordcount - 210.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Sing a different tune</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You need to eat, Adad.” Frerin’s voice was soft and pleading as he knelt beside Thrain and proffered the bowl cautiously. He glanced back at Thorin. The worry written across his face. “Dis made it especially for you. It’s really good.”</p><p>Seven full days had passed since Nar stumbled back into the settlement with tears in his eyes, and a purse full of orc-tainted coin clasped in his hands. His voice cracking with exhaustion and grief as he told them of Thror’s death at the hands of the orc-king.</p><p>Seven full days since Thrain allowed himself to fall into silent despair and grief. With no thought for his people who needed him. Again.</p><p>Thorin studied the deep shadows under his adad’s eyes. The hollowing cheeks. It had been madness. The ever present fury that he carried with him rose in his chest and threatened to choke him. It had been an ill-judged folly, and a life thrown away needlessly. Selfishly. Reclaiming Khazad-dûm would have taken an army. No matter what way he turned it over in his mind Thorin couldn’t understand what had possessed Thror to attempt such a thing alone. The anger and grief writhed inside him, and robbed him of his own appetite and rest. He too would like the luxury of time to mourn, but he had to go on. They all had to go on. This continued wallowing was an indulgence.</p><p>"Adad." He strode forward until his shadow fell over the King. "Adad, look at me."</p><p>Thrain, sunk into the chair by the roaring fire, showed no sign that he heard. He continued to sit, hunched and frail like a dwarf a hundred years older, and stare at the bloodied purse clutched in his hands. If not for the slight rise and fall of his chest he could have been a statue. Not that anyone would want such a wretched thing in their halls. </p><p>It needed to stop. Thorin snatched the bowl from Frerin, and ignored the hot soup as it slopped over the rim and splashed on his boots.</p><p>“Eat. Or I will feed you.”</p><p>That got a reaction. Thrain’s eyes glittered in the firelight as he lifted his head. Thorin tugged the spoon from Frerin’s resisting fingers, and took no notice of the urgent, whispered entreaty of peace from his brother. There was no choice left. Gentle handling had not worked. “If you are going to behave like a little dwarfling, then I will treat you like one. You are the King now, like it or not, and I will not carry you on my shoulders. Not again.”</p><p>Had they been safe within their mountain the bowl would have shattered against solid flagstones when Thrain struck it from his hands. As it was Thorin watched it spill its contents in a wide arc as it rolled across the soft rugs and spun slowly to a halt. He turned to face Thrain as his adad rose to his feet. “Well, that was a waste of—”</p><p>“You will be silent.” The King’s voice was low and husky from disuse. “You will be silent and you will follow me.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"sing a different tune" - change one's opinion about or attitude toward someone or something. What has got your character(s) singing a different tune today? (300 words)</p><p>Wordcount - 452</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Bridge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thorin hauled his little brother to his feet.</p><p>Frerin nodded in response to the unasked question. A hand clutched to his side as he panted and picked up his axe and shield. “I’m fine.”</p><p>“Good. Ready yourself.”</p><p>“You need to be faster, Frerin.” Dwalin called from his spot by Molir under a nearby tree. The pair of them wreathed in pipesmoke and looking very relaxed with their own weapons propped up against the wide trunk. “Get out of the way.”</p><p>Thorin tried to hide his smile at the filthy look Frerin shot Dwalin’s direction. “Eyes on me, brother. Concentrate. Never take your eyes off your opponent. Not even for a moment."</p><p>It was difficult not to hold back but to coddle his brother would do him no favours in battle. Thorin swung again and Frerin blocked. Barely. The messengers were sent, time was rapidly running out. Soon they would close the settlement, return the keys of the forge and leave to meet the other dwarf lords. Thorin feinted and stepped under his brother’s frustratingly clumsy counterstrike. He should have paid more attention to training, and now it was nearly too late. It was his fault and no-one else’s. He drove his knee hard into Frerin’s stomach and tried not to wince at his little brother’s cry of pain. Frerin stumbled but at least managed to raise his shield in time to block Thorin’s sword strike, which was an improvement. Although the impact drove him to one knee. Which wasn’t.</p><p>“My turn.”</p><p>Thorin turned, his sword falling to his side.</p><p>“You first, I think.” Dis took a stance. “That’ll give Frerin time to recover. Then I’ll take him.”</p><p>Thorin ignored the unhelpful snickering from Dwalin and Molir. It was no laughing matter. Dis shifted the axe in her hands and repositioned her feet, her face determined. Even with her hours at the forge the weapon was too heavy. The tendons standing out in her forearms and its weight pulling her off balance. It was impossible. She was impossible. Not for the first time Thorin wished for their amad.</p><p>“Whose trousers are those?”</p><p>“It doesn’t matter. Come on, brother. Try and hit me.”</p><p>“We’ve been through this, Dis.” Thorin scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly tired. “You are not fighting. That is an order and there’s no need to glower at me. You’re too young and—”</p><p>“And I’m a dam. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what it always comes down to in the end. Well, I’ll tell you this, Thorin. I’ve as much right to fight and die for our people as any of you.” Dis slammed the axe to the ground and glared harder at him. If that were possible. “I’m a Durin, just like you, and I won’t be left on my own.”</p><p>With a final disgusted look at them all Dis stormed off through the trees in the direction of the settlement. Thorin flinched as cold steel touched his neck.</p><p>“Never take your eyes off your opponent, brother.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>bridge - a musical passage that connects one section of a song to another. It can be the connector of paths, scenes, and ideas. Incorporate the term, figuratively or literally. (200 words)</p><p>Wordcount - Over again. 506 words.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Unison</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The hall was warm and uncomfortably humid. Steam rose in waves, bringing with it a fug of old pipesmoke and stale sweat, from the bodies of the dwarves packed shoulder to shoulder as they waited. It mixed unpleasantly with the acrid smoke of the cheap torches scattered around the walls. The unusual silence, dwarves were never quiet, broken only by the shuffle of booted feet on rugs and the steady patter of rain against the wooden roof. His people were uneasy, and rightly so.</p><p>Thorin stood behind the makeshift throne with Frerin on his right and Dis on his left. There was a drip somewhere. He could hear it. His eyes flickered over the roof as he tried to pinpoint where the sound was coming from. Not that it mattered. They would pull down the hall before they left, along with the other homes and the security fence. Then sell the wood and any possessions that couldn’t be easily carried, and the rain could at last wash away any last trace of them.</p><p>But that was the future. Right now there was a drip. Water on metal. The irregular soft noise an irritation. The pulse throbbed in Thorin’s temple as the sound ground its way into his head.</p><p>The hall doors swung open. Cool evening air rushed into the hall and the torches flickered madly as Thrain swept in and strode toward the throne. The crowd shifted and pressed back against the wall to hurriedly clear a path and in the gap they created his eyes met Thorin’s for the briefest of moments.</p><p>They had barely spoken in weeks. Thorin present at meetings but mute. His opinion neither wanted nor asked for. He may as well have been a statue, or a floor rug, for all the attention his adad paid him. But he attended anyway. For he was the Crown Prince and he would not be kept away. It was his duty. Frerin fretful at his side, and torn between his adad and his brother.</p><p>As Thrain turned to address the crowd a small hand slipped into Thorin’s. He glanced down at Dis. She stared straight ahead, her chin held high. His strong little princess. His heart. He squeezed her fingers gently. Keeping his movements hidden from the crowd he reached slowly for Frerin and took a hold of the back of his brother’s tunic to pull him closer. Frerin trembled slightly beneath his hand, whether from excitement or nerves Thorin wasn’t sure.</p><p>He would keep her safe. He would keep them both safe. Although the how wasn’t yet clear to him. But he would think of something.</p><p>“—take back our strongholds and wipe their filth from Middle-earth. They will never rise again. We will not rest until we destroy them completely!”</p><p>The wooden walls around them reverberated as the crowd roared and stamped as one. Thorin gripped his siblings tighter.</p><p>“We go to war!”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>unison - coincidence in pitch of sounds or notes, i.e., they sang simultaneously, or they said the same thing at exactly the same time! Include a moment where something occurs in unison. (400 words).</p><p>Wordcount - 489</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. The world's smallest violin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thorin watched the latest arrivals. Stonefoots this time. No lord with them. None he recognised anyway. He should be by Thrain’s side. Greet them with fine and inspiring words and instruct Dwalin and Grimoir to find them a suitable space in the camp. The ground to the north perhaps. Between the Firebeards and Broadbeams. Before whatever nonsense was going on between those two contingents spilled over and led to murder.</p>
<p>He ran the whetstone over his sword slowly. He was sulking, he supposed. For want of a better word. Which was unbecoming in a dwarven prince. Mourning the loss of his forge and a solid roof over their heads. Foolishness. But he couldn’t force himself to his feet. Even when Thrain gestured toward the southern edge of the camp. Ultimately it mattered little which section of churned up grass and muck they placed the Stonefoots on. In a few days they would pack up and move on. Another march north. Another rough camp. More nights under dripping canvas and a wait for whatever further reinforcements wandered in.</p>
<p>There were too many of them to camp near the mannish villages. They were unwanted. The men looked to their own and refused to supply them. There wasn’t enough to spare to feed a hungry dwarven army on their doorstep. Their coin and their trade not good enough.</p>
<p>Frerin strode through the tents and greeted the Stonefoots with a bow. Thorin sat up straight and looked around for Dis but there was no sign of her. He frowned. They were supposed to stay together. They made him a promise. Her absence spoke of quiet, or not so quiet, disobedience. Thorin stood and sheathed the sword. He trusted his kin. But there were too many strangers to not know where she was. He would find her. Whatever she was up to. Then they would come back together and find Frerin. Then he would knock their heads together.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"the world's smallest violin" is being played today. Who is it playing for? (200 words)</p>
<p>Wordcount - 323</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Song and dance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Thorin. You are being—”</p><p>He glared her into silence and waited for her to drop her eyes. She didn’t, of course, but at least fell finally quiet. Her lips pressed together in a tight line and her whole stance radiating defiance. It was unacceptable. When had she become so unmanageable?</p><p>He turned to Dwalin and Molir instead. “Explain yourselves.”</p><p>Dwalin shrugged. “It was just a spar. With us. We were hardly throwing her headfirst into an orc pack. She needs to know how to defend herself, Thorin.”</p><p>Thorin ground his teeth together and planted his feet firmly to stop himself from launching himself at his friend. “She knows well enough how to defend herself. If you are going to work on anything with her then work on running and climbing. This, nonsense, only encourages her foolishness.”</p><p>Dis snorted. He spun before she could react and snatched the axe from her hands. She yelped angrily.</p><p>“This stops. Now. I cannot keep having this conversation with you.”</p><p>“Don’t point my own axe at me, Thorin. I won’t have it. I will—”</p><p>“It’s not your axe and you will nothing. What you will do is listen to me, or I will leave you at the next town we pass. And you will stay there, under lock and key if necessary, until such times as I return to collect you. That is exactly what you will do.”</p><p>“Thorin.” Molir raised his hands in a gesture of peace as Thorin spun and pointed the axe at him. “You are overreacting. I understand that you are under a lot of—”</p><p>“And I will leave you with her.”</p><p>“What? No.”</p><p>“Both of you.”</p><p>He reconsidered as he stomped through the trees back toward the camp with the axe gripped tight in his hand. Perhaps he was overreacting a little. Dwalin could stay. He needed him to help guard Frerin.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>song and dance - an unnecessary fuss, or a misleading story or statement. Make a character give the old song and dance today. (300 words)</p><p>Wordcount - 315 (yay! nearly hit a wordcount target!)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Harmony</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>How was his brother’s hair always such an unruly snarl?</p><p>Dis handed him the comb and he nodded his thanks and tucked it between his teeth. Fingers first. The comb would get stuck and only add to the mess. He plucked a twig out and dropped it to the floor.</p><p>“I could just not wear a helm?” Frerin offered hopefully.</p><p>That was not even close to a viable solution and therefore did not require an answer.</p><p>“We’ll try some more braids at the front. That’ll keep it out of your eyes.” The curls fought him, springing back and winding around each other as quick as he could untangle them and Thorin growled in frustration, “Keep your head still.”</p><p>“But I don’t want more braids at the front. I want mine like yours, brother. And Dis.”</p><p>Dis was making much better progress. Thorin peered over Frerin’s head as she knelt by the stool and started work on a third braid. Neat golden ropes already hung down either side of Frerin’s scowling face. She glanced up at him. “I’m thinking he needs another at the temple. I can take it back and behind his ear. Like this.”</p><p>“Good idea.”</p><p>“Dis, they’re too tight.”</p><p>“Stop whining, Frerin. How are you getting on back there, Thorin?”</p><p>Thorin made a non-committal noise. It wasn’t going well. He tried the comb, and ignored his brother’s protests.</p><p>“Move.” Dis nudged Thorin out of the way with her hip. “He’ll have no hair left by the time you’re finished mauling him. Go fetch his helm.”</p><p>Thorin watched in amazement as she ran her fingers lightly from Frerin’s forehead and the tangles simply fell away. In moments she had gathered and smoothed the mop of hair into a neat thick braid that hung down his brother’s back. “Why have I been trying to braid his hair all these years?”</p><p>“You need the practice. Where’s the helm?”</p><p>It was much better. Thorin reached out and tapped his little brother on the head as he glowered back at them through the visor. The helm clanged reassuringly under his fingertips, and there was no hair hanging into Frerin’s eyes.</p><p>Perfect.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>harmony - a simultaneous combination of notes that is pleasing to the ear. Similarly, an agreement, or an internal calm. Write a moment in which everything seems to be going the right way. (300 words) </p><p>Wordcount - 357 (nearly!) It was a lot longer. This was pretty cute to write.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Shuffle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Adad. Surely it would make more sense if I—”</p>
<p>“Are you questioning me?”</p>
<p>Of course he was. Thorin dropped his head as Thrain glowered him into a mutinous silence. It was madness. Well, perhaps not madness because separating the heirs did make sense. But it wasn’t the sort of sense Thorin wanted to hear. “I just thought that—”</p>
<p>“You”—Thrain pointed to the map spread across the table—“are on the left flank. I am trusting you with this, Thorin. I keep hearing you’re too young and that you’ve no battle experience—”</p>
<p>Both those things were undeniably true, but one, or both, of those points could also be applied to most of the dwarves gathered under the Durin banners. Which was something Thorin didn’t like to think too closely about.</p>
<p>“—but I have told them all that you are my heir, and you will lead them to certain victory.” He lowered his voice and waved them both closer. Frein exchanged a look with Thorin as they drew in to the table. “I do not trust them not to break. They are miners and tinkers, but you will make them listen to you.”</p>
<p>Thorin was offended on behalf of his kin. “They may be tinkers and smiths by trade, but there is not one dwarf here who does not have the heart of a warrior. It is in our blood.”</p>
<p>“And that is exactly why I need you to lead them.” Thrain smiled indulgently and clapped Thorin’s shoulder. “Don’t get yourself killed.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>shuffle - rearrangement of tracks in a random order, or, a confused jumble. Something is shuffled in your 'verse today. What caused it? How do your characters react? (200 words) </p>
<p>Wordcount - 251 (another nearly!)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. The jig is up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">It would be frowned upon to tether up his siblings like ponies, but that didn't mean he wasn't giving it serious thought.</p><p class="western">Thorin stomped his way uphill through the stunted mountain trees. The sound of a fiddle a beacon, and likely not just to him. His boot slid on a wet rock and he muttered a curse. This was orc country. Dangerous country. Utter foolishness.</p><p class="western">He found them over the next rise. The lad flushed to his ears as he shot along the flat rock and created a clear space between him and Dis. Too late. Thorin glared at him as he radiated innocence and pretended his fingers had not moments ago been busy guiding Dis's on the fingerboard.</p><p class="western">The fiddle gave a final tortured squeak before Dis lowered it and glowered at Thorin like he was the one caught on an unchaperoned...whatever this was. Thorin didn't like to think about it. She was barely more than a dwarfling.</p><p class="western">He flicked his fingers at the lad in a gesture of dismissal. The boy nodded quickly and sensibly took the fiddle from Dis’s hands, which was a good start, then chose to linger and share a few whispered words with Dis that made her smile in a very disconcerting way. Thorin cleared his throat — with highsight it may have been closer to a growl — and the boy jumped to his feet and scurried off.</p><p class="western">Thorin listened to him go in a rattle of stones and crunch of twigs carelessly crushed underfoot. He shook his head in disbelief. It was a ridiculous amount of noise for one dwarf to make. When the sounds eventually faded — perhaps, with any luck, the boy had been eaten — he took a deep, calming breath and turned to Dis. “You are supposed to be working in the mess tent this afternoon.”</p><p class="western">“And with the healers afterward. I know.”</p><p class="western">“If you know, then why aren't you there?”</p><p class="western">Frerin was just as bad. Place him somewhere. Check on Dis. Find her, but not where she was supposed to be and not doing what she was supposed to be doing. Place her where she was meant to be, and return to find Frerin vanished. And repeat, growing more and more furious with them both, until they were all in their bedrolls. For this is what his life had become, it was no surprise he had already found threads of silver in his hair. Surely it was a punishment for something, but Thorin couldn't think what he had possibly done to deserve it.</p><p class="western">Dis shrugged and stood. He watched her carefully brush the dust from her skirts, and waited for the apology. It was not forthcoming. She seemed completely unconcerned that he'd raced from one end of the camp to the other — with his heart pounding in his ears and his mind conjuring all manner of terrible things — until Dwalin mentioned she was seen leaving the camplines. Deep in conversation with the boy from the Stiffbeards camp. The green eyed musician who thought to bring a fiddle to war but barely, to Thorin's mind at least, knew one end of his axe from another.</p><p class="western">Not that there was anything wrong with musicians. Thorin appreciated fine music as much as the next dwarf. He fully supported his sister nurturing any creative talents. In a supervised manner. With another dam perhaps.</p><p class="western">He glanced at her as she stomped at his side down the mountain toward the camp. As she hitched up her skirts to clamber over a rockslide he took her elbow to help her. He didn't want to have this conversation. Like so many other conversations he'd been forced to blindly stumble through, it was one for his amad. Or anyone else, he was ill qualified.</p><p class="western">Perhaps Dwalin could do it, since he hadn't had the wit to stop her it would be a fitting punishment. Although he would be just as useless, and Durin only knew what nonsense he would fill her head with.</p><p class="western">Thorin’s heart lifted with a flash of inspiration. Balin. That was a fine idea. Thorin breathed a sigh of relief and smiled as Dis looked at him curiously. “Just a stray thought, sister. Take my hand. It's slippery here.”</p><p class="western">Balin wasn't exactly qualified either, but he would know. He read books.</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"the jig is up" - The scheme has been revealed! The deception has been foiled! Work this expression into today's scene. (200 words)</p><p>Wordcount - 714 - Went a bit over. No regrets.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Instrumental</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>From Thorin’s vantage point high on the eastern spur of the mountain their great host arrayed across the valley seemed much smaller and worryingly insignificant. But those were traitorous and cowardly thoughts and he forced them down as the rhythmic boom of the ram against the high, black gates of Gundabad echoed and rolled over them. It drowned out the sounds of the warhorns and the roars of his kin, and even the beating of his own heart as it pounded in his chest. He shifted his grip on his sword and watched the gates buckle further with each strike. The way the sound reached his ears a few moments later was disorientating.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tore his eyes away from the gate and the silently forbidding stone walls that surrounded it. Down below, somewhere near the King’s banner in the centre of the valley and far away from him, stood his baby brother. Brave and so very young in his ill-fitting armour with Dwalin and Balin close by his side, held to their promises not to leave him alone. Not for a single moment. No matter what happened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Many promises had been made in the dark hours before dawn. Sleepless and worried under the canvas roof Thorin had lain, with Frerin curled against his chest and Dis at his back, and listened to the rain against the canvas roof whilst his thoughts chased each other in ever darkening circles. His orders to hold the spur no matter what happened in the valley played on his mind. It made sense, for Gundabad was riddled with escape routes and secret passageways through the dark rocks, and it was a certainty that foul creatures within would attempt to flank the dwarven army.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could not let that come to pass. No matter what happened. He was a dwarven prince and he would hold his post. Thorin searched for Frerin frantically, although it was impossible to make out individual dwarves from this height. His brother should be beside him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The spur had fallen silent. Thorin glanced over his shoulder at his command. They were quieter than they had been, and quieter than they should be, with all eyes anxiously turned toward the gates. He roared a battle cry to rally them and they shouted back in return as by his side Grimoir nodded in approval. The stamp of boots and clash of weapons against shield rippled through the assembled dwarves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was better.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thorin turned back toward the gate and exchanged a glance and a quick flash of a hopefully encouraging smile with the dwarf holding his banner. Green eyes, rimmed with white, staredback at him from under a too big helm. His sister’s musician, and his charge. Thorin’s solemn promise to her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A roar filled the valley. Louder than before as, with a final boom that seemed to shake the ground under his feet, the gates collapsed and a black tide of orcs poured out through the gap. An unearthly screeching filled the air and a wave of huge bats flowed over the ramparts toward the spur.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were coming.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>instrumental ‐ This version of a song has no singing, no lyrics. Write without dialogue and focus on sounds today. </p>
<p>Wordcount target - 400<br/>Actual wordcount - 516</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Nocturne</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The ruined gates of Gundabad were silhouetted in the flames that leapt high into the darkened sky. Thorin glanced at the dwarf by his side. The musician’s face was still a sickly pallor despite the soft glow of starlight and flickering firelight, and he looked exhausted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should go and find your family, Afli,” Thorin said gently. “You’ve done enough for one day. Go and rest.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Afli tore his eyes away from the nearest pyre with difficulty and shook his head. “Dis told me to—” He coughed. “It smells terrible.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It did, and there were still hundreds if not thousands of orcish bodies to be disposed of. The fires would burn for days, and Thorin knew the smoke would cling to them well after the pyres eventually stopped smouldering. The scent of it would linger in their memories long after clothes and skin were scrubbed clean. It transported Thorin back years, to their flight from Erebor, and turned his stomach. A body slid from the pyre and Thorin lifted a spear and moved forward to push it back. This was grim work and he needed to be here. Afli did not.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s all very well,” he said to Afli, “and you can tell her you kept your promise, but now I need you to go and find her for me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frerin was alive, steaked from helm to boots with black blood and pale as death, but safe somewhere within Gundabad and that was all that mattered. Thrain too was thankfully still in one piece and, according to Dwalin, out in the valley at one of the other pyres. Dis would be inside and hard at work in the hastily set up and busy healing chambers, but it would put his mind at rest to know she was definitely, for once, where she should be. Visions of her lost and wandering down darkened passageways distracted him from the task ahead of him. Gundabad was a vast fortress. It was not hard to imagine that there would still be orcs hidden within it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Afli nodded. “I’ll find her and come straight back. I swear.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thorin watched Afli race away through the gates and be swallowed up by the gloom. Too late he looked at the blood and ichor stained rocks beneath his boots and saw the abandoned axe, but hopefully the lad had some knives on him, and the ground was littered with both orcish and dwarven weapons should it come to it. With a sigh Thorin shouldered the axe and made his way back toward the main battlefield. Nodding in acknowledgement to the dwarves he passed as they pulled hastily-built sleds and carts to ferry their own injured and dead toward either the healing chambers or the cold rooms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At sunrise he would begin the search for an appropriate place to build tombs for their own kin. Thorin threw Afli’s axe into the bed of an unattended cart and began to pull it toward a dark mass of tangled bodies. But for now, he had orcs to burn.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Nocturne - a piece, typically for solo piano, that evokes the moods and images of nighttime. Write a scene that is set long after the sun has gone down. (400 words)</p>
<p>Actual wordcount - 507</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Call and response</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Dis!” Thorin roared at the door of the noisy, crowded chamber. Heads turned toward him and he ignored them all as he ran along the nearest line of pallets filled with gravely injured dwarves searching desperately for his baby sister.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A hand grabbed at his arm. Afli had caught up with him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thorin,” the boy whispered urgently as he tugged on Thorin’s sleeve, “she’s this way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Frerin knelt amongst the dwarves gathered by the pallet. He looked up as Thorin approached and dimly Thorin registered the exhaustion and worry on his little brother’s face, but it was the sight of Dis still and silent on the blood-stained blankets that turned his spine to ice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molir caught a hold of him about the waist as Thorin’s knees threatened to give way. “Oin says he can save her arm, Thorin, it’s not as bad as it looks. I swear to—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first punch knocked Molir back a step. As Thorin swung again, hands grabbed at his arms and a clamour of voices bade him stop. Afli, with his own hands raised and shouting for peace, threw himself in front of Molir, and Thorin pushed the boy roughly aside as a weight slammed into his back and bore him to the flagstones. Matted blond braids swung about Thorin’s face as he bucked and tried to break free but Frerin only wrapped his arms and legs tighter around him and hung on with grim determination.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop, brother,” Frerin whispered in Thorin’s ear as the fight slowly left him. “She’s safe, we’re safe. Please stop.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Call and response - a style of singing in which a melody sung by one singer is responded to or echoed by one or more singers, when someone "calls", will others "respond"? (100 words)</p>
<p>Actual wordcount - 260</p>
<p>Really not doing well sticking to the wordcounts.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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